


Peter & The Wolf

by merr



Category: Hemlock Grove, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merr/pseuds/merr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt finds himself in a troubling situation with a young werewolf, both held against their will for different reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Poison & A Pit

**Author's Note:**

> Uhh... hah. My first crossover evar BUT I've wanted to write Witcher smut for SO LONG. And I adore Hemlock Grove. SO THIS MAKES PERFECT SENSE, RIGHT? RIGHT? >>;

The taste in Geralt's mouth ranked in the top three most unpleasant wake-ups he could recall -- which was saying something as his amnesia had been lifting, slowly but steadily, for some time. He kept himself still, kept his heart rate low -- he could sense something was off by the simple fact that the last thing he remembered was fencing words with a terrifyingly gorgeous sorceress in her overly-warm tower, attempting to find a middle ground between her demanding the sacrifice of first born sons from the nearest village and an outright firefight. He slowly, one at a time, tested his limbs -- everything responded, but slowly, which alarmed him. His hands felt cold, to the point of numbness and he cursed to himself when he couldn't get his fingers to move -- not even the slightest twitch. He decided to allow his systems to work freely and 'woke up,' opening his amber eyes, small shafts of moonlight more than enough to show him he wasn't alone.

The man across from him was curled in the far edge of what Geralt quickly gathered was a pit of some sort, smooth on the edges, round in shape. He sat up slowly, not taking his eyes off the shivering form as he spoke, deciding to tread with amicability: "Does your mouth taste of rotting nekker as well?"

The man twitched, bringing one dark eye up above his crossed arms to glance at him, "No." Geralt noted that the smaller man was pressed as close to the wall as possible, the shafts of moonlight only about a yard from his feet. Bare feet. Rough. Geralt brought his hand up, pretending to brush his unbound hair from his neck but using the motion to glance at his fingers -- they looked normal but for a thin layer of what appeared to be ice. He put the hand he'd brought up to the side of his neck, mouth twitching down in a frown when it didn't feel cold to the flesh there.

"Did you also offend the Lady Isabelle's sensitive needs?" He asked as he attempted to roll up to a crouch, only to fumble a bit and land forward on his hands. Geralt couldn't help but growl a bit -- a tiny one, in the base of his throat. Fumbling? He did not fumble. His sense of dread deepened a bit and he paid close attention to his body and his mouth curled into a snarl -- poison.

He had first thought the slow reaction of his body was simply stiffness but now understood that he had been drugged. He couldn't feel any major organs in distress and his mind was as quick as ever but his body -- his first and foremost defense and weapon -- was sluggish and clumsy. He sat back, crossing his legs as the boy responded with a bitter laugh.

"I guess you could say that."

Geralt pushed the hair from his face on purpose this time, squinting at the boy -- he appeared no older than 19 or 20, brown hair unkempt, heavy eyebrows, scruffy. "I am Geral--"

"Yeah, Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf. I know. Name's Peter. Ha! Peter and the wolf, right? Belle's got a sense of humor if nothing else..."

Geralt's eyebrows crept up -- he had watched the boy's hands flick in irritation and noted the index and ring fingers were the same length. He cursed in his head, understanding why the boy, Peter, had elected to the shadows. He was a were. Geralt shifted himself backward, propping against the other side of the pit's wall. He noted that all of his armor, weapons and even his boots were absent. Of course. He watched the boy, noting the section of shadow had shrunk just a bit, and started to catalog his options. He could attempt to attack the boy now, before he turned, but he had never believed in destroying innocents. He had a feeling the boy was captive, like him, and wasn't happy about it. He could try, in the short time he had left before Peter turned, to plant in his head the fact that he could help him escape, IF he didn't destroy the witcher when he transformed. It was a slim chance that he would retain any knowledge at all, but Geralt was left with no other option.

"Peter. I could help you escape this place."

The teen's grey eyes snapped up to Geralt's face, a moment of hope shining in them, but the boy crushed it as he had many times before, "Heh. I don't think even you can scale a wall 20 feet tall, White Wolf."

Geralt grunted, casually drawing his knees up so that he could at least kick the boy away with both feet when he turned, "How many times has she forced you to kill like this?"

Peter blinked, then threw his head back to laugh, "Kill? That's not her main objective. See this? And this? These?" He pointed to thin silver threads, bound tightly around his throat, the tops of his thighs, at the junction of his shoulders. Some of them had implanted into his flesh, half-disappearing next to dozens of other threads, freshly woven. "She doesn't use me to kill directly. That wouldn't hurt me, not nearly enough." He laughed again, a short, cold grunt and stood so that he might better be covered with shadow. "I guess women like her aren't used to being turned away." A flush was rising in his face and chest, and Geralt sensed shame, anger, fear... all rolling off the young man in waves.

Peter opened his mouth to speak but hissed as the moon moved just enough to hit his shoulder with a sliver of light. He jerked back, flattening himself against the hardened clay wall, "Fuck. I don't want to do this, you have to know that." He stared at Geralt, eyes wild. "I... when I heard you were in the village, I hoped, but... I dreaded, too. I... I respect you. For helping Vargulf who've lost themselves. I don't want to do this. I don't want to."

Geralt's sense of dread grew, steadily, as the boy's voice became louder and louder -- he had a feeling the threads would drive the boy madder than ever when the turn started. He'd never seen such a thing and the lack of knowledge put him on edge. As his heart began to race, the dizziness that had been lurking on the edges of his mind surged and he stared back at the boy, slit pupils dilating.

As the moonlight finally peaked over the edge of the pit, the boy yelled out with a curse that held half a sob as his flesh began to split.


	2. Tranformation & A Tease

The transformation was like nothing Geralt had witnessed -- and the witcher had seen most of the world's horrors up close and personal. The brunette jerked, spittle spraying between clenched teeth as he fell into a crouch, eyes bulging. Geralt pushed himself up the surface behind him, willing his twitching thigh muscles to react faster as Peter's scream started, reaching crescendo as golden disks blossomed in his skull, pushing his grey, human orbs out.

"Peter. Peter!"

The boy's face jerked up at him, his new feral eyes boring into the witcher. Geralt drew in a breath, instinctively trying to form quen in the air next to his hip as he watched crimson valleys open up along the younger man's thighs and shoulders. The gaze broke as Peter's core convulsed and a growl that started to sound more animal that human rumbled in his chest. His chest... Geralt noted with the small, detached part of his mind who always captured details the smoothness of the boy's chest, his throat. The flesh wasn't splitting there but only grew larger, more defined. As Peter reached up, scrabbling at his eye teeth, Geralt noticed that his hands remained nearly human -- if not for the fine black fur and thick points of nails forcing their way through.

"Peter, I know you're in pain, but the silver -- if you can't turn all the way, perhaps--" Geralt's head jerked back involuntarily, his vision swimming for a second as Peter pulled first one tooth out, and then the other, making way for longer, razor-edged canines.

"You don't... can't understand.. this pain!" Peter ground out as his knees popped, ankles cracking backward to accommodate impossibly large paws... feet? Paws. Somewhere in between. All Geralt knew of import was that the ten spaces where square, non-threatening toenails used to reside were now embedded with half-inch hooks, almost more like talons than wolf claws.

"What are you, Peter? What has Anabelle done to you?" As his heart pounded harder, Geralt tried his damndest to keep it under control -- but the harder he tried, the weaker he felt. The less control he held. He cursed, his mind slipping through lists of poisons and herbs, trying to pinpoint what horrible root or flower she'd forced into his system. With a few last small pops as Peter stretched his neck side to side, a relative silence settled on them. The boy, wild eyes peering out from a still-human face, stared across the steaming pile of flesh between them. His shoulders heaved, roped in muscle and fur -- the core of his body remained human, the line blurring slightly at the edges of the silver wire. Geralt noticed Peter's manhood, pointed up flat against his belly, twitch as he took the first step forward.

"Stop!" Geralt poured every ounce of command he had left into the order, and it worked, for a moment -- a moment in which he spoke quickly in a low, still forceful voice, "Peter. We can get out of here if we work together. I know you're probably mad with pain right now, but if you can hear me--"

Had Geralt been in top form, he may have been able to dodge Peter, but even then, it would have been close. Impaired as he was, Peter slammed into the witcher with full force, pinning him at the shoulders to the hard surface behind him, claws digging through Geralt's linen undershirt to call forth dark red blossoms with almost zero effort. The two monsters stared at each other, amber to amber, pupils wide caverns of primal emotions winding like serpents.

"Hear you. Feel you. Cannot--" The words rasped as though sandpaper in Peter's throat and he broke off abruptly, snapping the air in undiluted frustration.

A woman's voice purred from above and Geralt felt his gut clench with disgust -- some sorceresses had clearly read too many children's fairy tales. "What the boy means to say is he can't control himself."

Geralt was slow to turn his eyes from the silver threads biting deep into Peter's shoulder up to the dark-haired woman who sat at the edge of the pit, dangling her feet over the edge in an infuriating show of nonchalance.

"Isn't this a bit overly theatrical, Annabelle?" Geralt heard his words come more slowly than usual and it needled him, almost more than the impudent look on her face. She smirked and though he didn't strike women if he could help it, he wanted nothing more than to blast her teeth right out of her skull.

"I do love a good drama, it's true. See, some time ago, little Peter here turned me away in favor of a baker's son. Oh yes, queer as the day is long, those two. I'd given the ungrateful little bastard all the help he needed to keep himself out of trouble... and he refused to give me what I wanted. So --"

Geralt swore at her, twisting his head away from Peter who was panting, his hands twitching and cutting into the witcher's shoulder muscles deeper as he fought himself.

"Shut your mouth, viper. I can put the pieces together well enough." Geralt brought his useless hands up to brace against Peter's unyielding ribcage, gathering himself as well as he could to give one tremendous shove. It caught the half-transformed boy off guard and the force pushed them apart. He yelled at the boy, nodding toward the woman's dangling legs, "There! Jump, Peter!"

The beast's eyes never left Geralt's face and the witcher felt dread pool at the base of his spine as Peter took a step forward, reaching down with one hand to press his rough palm against his erection, tongue pushing hard enough against a canine for Geralt to hear the slight crunch as it pierced flesh. Annabelle's tittering laugh made the witcher's blood boil.

As she drew her legs up and stood to leave, Annabelle spoke: "Queer as the day is long, remember? Though in this case, maybe as the night is long would fit better... Either way, I only care to see Peter's pain tomorrow morning; he just happens to be serving two of my purposes at the same time." She paused as, cocking her head to the side as Peter let go of himself and reached out for Geralt, "Hm. I'll be curious to see if you're a corpse come morning. I've heard witchers are hard to kill. Too bad for you, methinks..."

Geralt shifted to the side, attempting to dodge Peter's now-humongous hands and managed to trip himself, slamming a bloodied shoulder into packed dirt floor. He gasped, shaking his head, trying to clear the fog of poison, pain, and -- finally -- fear, as Peter grabbed him by the throat, lifting him clear off his feet to hook two claws clumsily into the laces of the witcher's doeskin pants.

Geralt tried again and again to swallow, flexing his abdominals with all his might to bring his feet up and brace them against the beast's chest which only prompted Peter to tighten his grip, nearly crushing the older man's windpipe. In reflex, Geralt pushed, pain adding a small amount more of strength -- to which Peter responded by slamming his captive against the nearest upright surface once, twice, hard enough to stun Geralt into a rolling, thunderous fog that threatened to push consciousness out of reach.

Peter's grip loosened enough to let Geralt gasp in air as he knelt on the witcher's lower legs, remaining shreds of his breeches darkening with surface wounds from the struggle but otherwise baring his scarred hips, lithe muscles roping over bones and tendons. Amber eyes met once again, both squinting out of sweat-studded faces, both wild -- one with pain, the other with desire.


End file.
